(What Grandpa Told the Children)

The moon? It is a griffin's egg,
Hatching to-morrow night.
And how the little boys will watch
With shouting and delight
To see him break the shell and stretch
And creep across the sky.
The boys will laugh. The little girls,
I fear, may hide and cry.
Yet gentle will the griffin be,
Most decorous and fat,
And walk up to the Milky Way
And lap it like a cat.

Genius of Culture! thou, whose chaster taste
Can clothe with beauty ev'n the dreary waste;
Teach me to sing, what bright'ning charms unfold,
The bearded ears, that bend with more than gold;
How empire rises, and how morals spring,
From lowly labour, teach my lips to sing;
Exalt the numbers with thy gifts supreme,
Ennobler of the song, my guide and theme!

Thou, toil! that mak'st, where our young empire grows,
The wilderness bloom beauteous as the rose,
Parent of wealth and joy! my nation's friend!

Shadows do every where for substance passe,
You'd think the sands were in an houre-glasse.
You that do live with Chirurgeons, have you seen
A spring of blood forc'd from a swelling vein?
So from a touch of Moses rod doth jump
A Cataract, the rock is made a pump:
At sight of whose o'erflowings many get
Themselves away for fear of being wet.
Have you beheld a sprightfull Lady stand
To have her frame drawn by a painters hand?
Such lively look and presence, such a dresse
King Pharoahs Daughters Image doth expresse;

You that prophane our windows with a tongue
Set like some clock on purpose to go wrong;
Who when you were at Service sigh'd, because
You heard the Organs musick not the Dawes:
Pittying our solemn state, shaking the head
To see no ruines from the floor to the lead:
To whose pure nose our Cedar gave offence,
Crying it smelt of Papists frankincense:
Who, walking on our Marbles, scoffing said
" Whose bodies are under these Tombstones laid?"
Counting our Tapers works of darknesse; and
Choosing to see Priests in blue-aprons stand

Mother of musings, Contemplation sage,
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock
Of Teneriff; 'mid the tempestuous night,
On which, in calmest meditation held,
Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain
And drifting hail descend; or if the skies
Unclouded shine, and thro' the blue serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,
Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct
Of distant billows sooth thy pensive ear
With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest,

BOOK III

Such are the various aspects of the mind —
Some heavenly genius, whose unclouded thoughts
Attain that secret harmony which blends
Th' aetherial spirit with its mold of clay;
O! teach me to reveal the grateful charm
That searchless nature o'er the sense of man
Diffuses, to behold, in lifeless things,
The inexpressive semblance of himself,
Of thought and passion. Mark the sable woods
That shade sublime yon mountain's nodding brow;
With what religious awe the solemn scene
Commands your steps! as if the reverend form

When shall the laurel and the vocal string
Resume their honours? When shall we behold
The tuneful tongue, the Promethean hand
Aspire to antient praise? Alas! how faint,
How slow the dawn of beauty and of truth
Breaks the reluctant shades of gothic night
Which yet involve the nations! Long they groan'd
Beneath the furies of rapacious force;
Oft as the gloomy north, with iron swarms
Tempestuous pouring from her frozen caves,
Blasted th' Italian shore, and swept the works
Of liberty and wisdom down the gulph

BOOK I

With what attractive charms this goodly frame
Of nature touches the consenting hearts
Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores
Which beauteous imitation thence derives
To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil;
My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers
Of musical delight! and while I sing
Your gifts, your honours, dance around my strain.
Thou, smiling queen of every tuneful breast,
Indulgent Fancy! from the tuneful banks
Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull
Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf

Poetic Genius

A different task remains; the secret paths
Of early genius to explore: to trace
Those haunts where Fancy her predestined sons,
Like to the demigods of old, doth nurse
Remote from eyes profane. Ye happy souls,
Who now her tender discipline obey,
Where dwell ye? What wild river's brink at eve
Imprint your steps? What solemn groves at noon
Use ye to visit, often breaking forth
In rapture mid your dilatory walk,
Or musing, as in slumber, on the green?
— Would I again were with you! — O ye dales

Oh! blest of heav'n, whom not the languid songs
Of Luxury, the siren! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour can seduce to leave
Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature fair imagination culls
To charm th' enliven'd soul! What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state
Endows at large whatever happy man